


(Admit It, Son) You’re a Work in Progress

by epicionly



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enterprise crew - Freeform, Gen, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 08:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13899840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epicionly/pseuds/epicionly
Summary: 2009 AU. Jim Kirk earns his Captain’s stripes the long way.





	(Admit It, Son) You’re a Work in Progress

**Author's Note:**

> This is the yikes, very overdue AO3 fic for Momo who has waited for far too long for my atrocious slow-writing self-criticizing ass. Not done as of yet (this chapter's the only one I'm releasing into the wild for now). Please excuse any flow or style conflicts! It's been a long time since I've written a multi-chaptered fic and some parts may be from a long time ago. Also tried my hand at some...political tension.
> 
> To Momo: We haven’t emailed in what feels like five million years!! I hope you're doing well. 8")

Within the few hours of arriving on Earth, they’ve sprayed him in a decontamination booth, let him spend half an hour combined spitting and rinsing out his mouth every so often into the room's adjoined sink, and given him a medical lookover. First and final order of the night: eight hours of shut eye, and no funny business.

It sounds like a plan, what with being nothing but achy human muscles. Jim hasn't felt this sore in years, and that's because sparring in the gyms or classes has nothing on being manhandled by both a Vulcan and a Romulan in less than twenty-four hours. Jim's still rubbing his wrists from where the handcuffs dug in red rings. He drags his feet. Post-adrenaline, Jim's decided, is a bitch.

That's when his communicator rings. Jim doesn't know who it is until he picks it up and Sulu follows with a lax, “ _Hey, savior of mine. You up for the drink_?”

Sulu, as Jim's come to understand deeply, can both backstab a giant Romulan all the way out the chest and also remember promises made in the aftermath of saving each other's life in a version of the suspension bridge effect.

“Surprised you’re still up,” Jim replies. Something sour curls up at the back of his throat; Jim coughs, trying not to gag. He needs to freshen up and get the taste out, but if he doesn't make a head start now, he doubts he’ll be able to get back to the campus before the shuttles stop for the night. "Oh man. Tell me I'm not dying."

“ _You can't. I've been told we have a mass debriefing tomorrow morning_ ,” Sulu says, as Jim grimaces and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “ _Before that, you can bet I’m going drink tonight first_." Sulu sounds confident in the same way he assumed fencing worked as combat training. And that worked out pretty well.

“That, is a _great_ idea." Jim almost wishes he didn't have to report brighter and earlier for additional debriefing on his charges. He tries to remember the last time he tried that, making semi-responsible decisions for the now. Bones probably has a running tally for the opposite. "But the real question is, aren't we supposed to spend the night near HQ?"

 _"Spending the night near HQ, yes."_ Sulu's a man who knows his way around regulations. “ _Getting a drink around here, I'll go with the bar that serves my personal poison of choice_."

"Truer words never spoken."

_"Glad to hear it. You up for it?"_

Jim wants to say yes. A drink sounds amazing right now and he's been stone dry since exam season finished. Then there was the entire academic probation debacle which he'd probably still be livid about if he wasn't bone-tired.

Speaking of Bones.

Jim chances a glance.

Like a murderous 21st century homing pigeon, Bones is giving him the stink-eye from over 20 feet away.

The inner debate lasts for half a second. Self-preservation wins out. "Against my better judgement, I'll have to take a raincheck before my primary doctor forcefully sedates me." Jim hates being hypo'd.

" _Suit yourself,"_ Sulu replies. Jim can hear the almost laugh in his voice. " _Tell him I said hello, because it's definitely drinking alone for me tonight then."_

"You'll live without me."

" _Ah, but the question is, after all is said and done, will I want to_?"

Sulu ends the comm after a few easy quips back and forth. By that point, Jim has been fiddling with his undershirt collar, uncomfortable. Running on sub-zero Delta Vega from its native man-eating carnivore and its uglier, larger, and more homicidal predator is one thing. Being slammed, manhandled, and tossed around two starships on two separate occasions and a space-drill is another.

He's still thinking about his near future sonic shower when he gets close enough to Bones that he can probably make out all the extra wrinkles Bones likes to say he adds to with every encounter.

"Before you get started, tell me we still have an Academy room." Jim doesn't know if there's reporters swarming there or not, but he'll barrel through them if he has to. "I need a shower." And a bed. Good god, a bed sounds amazing right now. Jim would probably even crash lovingly on a floor at this rate, but he'd hate to feel at what cost tomorrow.

"With good ol' soap and water," Bones disagrees and agrees as they match step for step. "None of that sound wave technology bullshit. It's been a long day."

 

* * *

 

The small amount of downtime is astoundingly quiet asides from a very long comm from his mother the next morning when the news breaks out. Family has a way of dressing you down with a (literal) wake-up call against all reckless decisions you've ever made in your life suddenly wrapped up into one adult conversation. Jim sympathizes; this must've been how Sam felt when mom had tracked him down from running away from home.

Jim can only really be glad he isn't late enough to warrant another personnel writing him up for something else. Final judgment: they'll overlook the mutiny, willfully disobeying superior commissioned officer, failure to obey order or regulation, and his taking over the ship charges, but he'll have to submit a report strong enough to convince an entire panel. It's kind of interesting they think being arrested as soon as he arrived on Earth isn't punishment enough, because Jim hates reports.

Chekov gives him a nod as he passes by in rank and file to the full assembly, cutting himself off from a "Keptin," and looking a bit embarrassed for it. Uhura just rolls her eyes.

Personnel debriefing consists of an official status update of everyone being grounded planetside, reminders about the required Starfleet psyche and physical exams, and all higher-ranked personnel and those especially involved required to submit a written report. (Which means Jim has to submit two. Goddammit.) After, there's a private informal assembly where an irate looking Admiral reads the packed room the Official Secrets Act and tells them to keep their silence on what happened up in Vulcan space.

It's kind of bureaucratic for just reminding people to keep low. It's usually not so stuffy. Soon as they're dismissed, Jim finds an empty terminal and makes a quick extranet search.

According to its website, Vulcan’s population is six billion inhabitants, the Consulate is welcoming visitors, the planet is open for a work/study permit like it is every year, and its tourism sector is popular among geologists and desert-living species. If you try to access further than the home links, the server glitches. No updates. Definitely not what the MediaComm was reporting this morning if Jim's concerned mother in all her fury was anything to go by.

And, according to citizens living under the Federation banner, Starfleet needs to be held accountable for not only the deaths of an entire generation of officers who died on those fleet ships, but their working policies that allowed it to happen. What happened on Vulcan?

Starfleet, it seems, would rather not tell. Jim's not sure what to think about that.

 

* * *

 

There's a funeral to respect and honour the dead and departed.

What with the ongoing controversy, it goes as well as anyone would expect.

 

* * *

 

Jim supposes he’s got Starfleet PR to thank for dealing with the mess, and the fact that outside of his last name, public knowledge of him seems to be that of an Academy grunt who went too far at best. It likely helps that most of the other cadets keep themselves between running between HQ and the Academy. The entire territory is separate from the rest of the city too; the reporters may crowd the entrances, but they're a psychological pressure at most. Jim himself mostly keeps to the campus: classes have been paused for the time being, but Jim still has an entire course load of people whose papers he has to return. Perks of being an ambitious trainwreck for the Command gold.

He actually has his first encounter with a reporter when he's in civvies and it's not because they took the initiative to hunt him down. He's on his way to meet Sulu at a bar for the raincheck, when he spots a familiar head of curly blond attached to a very familiar face.

Chekov, to his credit, is being very calm for someone who's seventeen and and has a giant camera and microphone shoved into his face. Then again, he can calculate and compensate for gravitational pull when beaming up two free-falling targets faster than a computer, and do it even when someone's screaming at him over the communicators.

"No comment," Jim says, practiced, poking his nose in anyway like a very well-intentioned big brother. He's had his fair share of bad press before ('Last Name Is Famous Parent's' bingo being what it is), but reporters have their stories half-written in their minds anyway before they even get the scoop. No need to give them ammunition.

"Ah!" Chekov gives a great exclamation that startles even Jim. "My brother!" His accent is also stronger than Jim remembers. Chekov babbles something, and then talks excitedly to the reporter, whose translator seems to be garbling nonsense words because she keeps asking him to explain and he keeps bouncing back with louder, deeper, and sharper sounds.

At one point, she seems absolutely terrified by what her translator is spitting out.

Jim watches, half in fascination and half in envy, as she becomes so flustered she has to excuse herself and her cameraperson.

"What'd you tell her?" Jim asks, mystified as they watch the two of them almost trip in their attempt to get away. He absolutely did not expect it to be resolved so easily.

Chekov graces Jim with a smile. It may, more or less, be somewhat more naturally good-natured than Jim had assumed he was being. "Mind games were invented in Russia," he says cheerfully, and when Jim looks questioningly at the brown paper bag in Chekov hefts in his arms, reaches in and pulls out the bottle to show. "Vodka. Not Russian, sadly, but acceptable."

"100% proof? Doesn't look like that'd taste very good," Jim says, surprised. Chekov could probably drink anyone under the table if this is standard fare. "Or be legal."

Chekov tsks. "Oh, no, no, no. Flavour is not innovation," he says, wide-eyed. "And of course, it is very illegal. But also it is very fun."

Jim elects to not say anything about it, as there is great hypocrisy of it being him out of all people saying anything against consuming illegal alcohol at seventeen unsupervised.

"I'm going to a bar to hang with your pilot neighbour. You want to come with?"

It's a no from Chekov. "But let us catch up later and I will show you how to drink like me," he tells Jim. "We will need it, at the rate they have yet to make a decision."

 

* * *

 

Somehow, you’d think alcohol would taste better when you now share a transcendent bond built on saving each other's life on a planet-drill, but it’s really not that different. Sulu's the type of guy everyone would be friends with. Easy on attitude, but driven just like everyone else in this place.

Also, with more information than others.

“She's really no finer rumour mill,” Sulu says, with a shrug to Jim's curious look about what kind of information he might have poached from Uhura himself, to recommend her by first name and have her personal comm number. Did everyone in their graduating class know except Jim? Furthermore, was Jim the only exception outside of strangers and polite company to not know? And still not have permission for? “She’ll know.”

"Should you even be giving me this?"

"I figure you've proved yourself to be outstanding in spite of your reputation, ("I have a reputation?") if that's what you're asking."

Uhura, when Jim messages her a _Hey, so about that first name..._ , writes,  _You don’t have someone else to bother?_ instead of asking how he got her number. That's positive. From the other side of the table, Sulu takes another sip of sake and eyeballs the patrons around them. Neither of them are in uniform and the bar itself is private, but with the mediastorm taking over, moving from Starfleet's losses onto the reason for it, you can't be too careful.

>>> _No one else has with a knack for morpho-phono-syntacto-semantics like you. Sulu's a pilot for a reason._

Uhura writes, _Real mature, Kirk_ , but Jim knows she's flattered and impressed he's doing this on a private channel. Also, linguists so love it if you use their language. _What do you need?_

_> >>Is PR actually trying to cover up what happened on Vulcan?_

Losing space-ready ships, the allocations of funds and misuse of authority seem almost secondary accusations when you look at the facts that an entire genocide of a race has happened. Everyone's speaking about this, and Starfleet has only let out a neutral statement about things being dealt with at a time. This ambiguity is what Jim is reeling about.

Uhura gives him a noncommittal answer at first. And then, without prompt, tells him a bit more here and there: Trade ships are being forbidden entry, and there’s a designated new route set up going around it. Starfleet is sending towships to clean up all the debris and pick up survivors from other emergency medical ships. The neighbouring systems, specifically the Andorians who live next door, are told it’s just procedure. There have been some court and public inquiries about it, but Starfleet is silencing any and all investigations on it. No ships in or out, outside of carefully screened vessels.

MediaComm, though, is having a field day about this.

 _Starfleet's historically not been a fan of mass chaos,_  she says.  _What with tensions at the Klingon border, it's understandable for a tight lid. Some in Communications are talking about leaking the information._

She doesn't say if she's among them, but she doesn't need to.

It's justice for the memory of those lost. Jim doesn't blame them. _It's gotten to that point?_

She replies, a moment later,  _You don’t even know the half of it._

_> >>How so?_

_< <<Never lasts._

Uhura's prediction rings true. The same month Jim is cleared for semi-active duty, the snow’s begun falling on San Francisco soil, and the Mediacomm networks read everything about the festivities, as though the death count doesn’t matter and Starfleet council doesn't need to explain their working policies to anyone if it's for the better of a nation of planets.

As different religions and species celebrate, hundreds of voices on the extranet that once fought against Starfleet’s media blackout on Vulcan eventually redirect towards the lustre and tinsel of commercial holidays.

It's hard to swallow it, really. Among it all, Jim wonders how Spock's doing.

 

* * *

 

Scotty, who seems positively thrilled to be unleashed upon Earth instead of a planet made of ice rock, is enjoying good food, drink, and access to technology. Keenser, on the other hand, doesn't really seem to care. After a few hours' visit, Jim says his goodbyes, preens his hair a bit more, and gets a message from an unknown comm number signed by Commander S'chn T'gai Spock, saying,

_< <<AGENDA: Graduating cadets are to attend assembly tomorrow at 1200 hours before Starfleet Council. Dress is standard uniform._

Almost right away, Jim's communicator pings with a message from Uhura. 

<<< _Rumour has it they're promoting and giving commendations. If you still want to talk and explain how you teleported on the Enterprise again, we can meet up._

_> >>I've a not-telling policy, like the farmboy I am._

_< <<Cute._

_> >>Charming*_

_> >>By the way. Never got around to asking, but how's Spock doing?_

Jim figures it's a clear sign of anything that it isn't his business, except she writes: _I expect he's fine._

Cryptic and tense. Also took an entire five minutes. Jim would comment, except Spock's messaged with:

_< <<Cadet Kirk: Captain Pike has requested your presence at Starfleet Medical tomorrow at 1000 hours, before the assembly. Please ensure you are in uniform, as it is likely you will proceed directly to it. I will not be attending, but arrangements have been made accordingly regarding your academic suspension._

Jim replies, _Noted_ , and, because he's not really sure about the protocol of it all, writes, _Hope you're doing well. My number's open if you want to talk._

_< <<Cadet Kirk: I would advise keeping these channels professional._

Jim's mouth quirks up, even if he really doesn't feel like smiling. _Noted, Commander. Offer stands regardless._

Spock doesn't reply anymore, but at least it's out there.

 

* * *

 

On one hand, academic record shows that they haven't kicked him out of Advanced Tactics, which is good, because it means it's possible he might still graduate a Lieutenant. Jim probably figures there's been a lot of debate over that, except that night, he spends it drinking with Bones for liquid courage, staring grimly at the edge of his glass, debating over it himself.

Jim scrubs a hand over his mouth.

He might be screwed.

 

* * *

 

Starfleet Medical isn't the worst place Jim's been, but it's definitely not the easiest.

In retrospect, Jim’s not a huge fan of hospitals. The reasons fall upon a combined childhood experience of allergies and shots, living in and out of clinics and several hazardous emergency surgeries because he’d played with more than just fire growing up. There’s also what he’ll admit is some lingering uneasiness. Overnight stays make him itch on principle, white doctor coats and nurse uniforms make him falter, and Jim avoids rehabilitation rooms entirely.

Jim tries to remember whether or not he remembered to eat.

When Jim walks through the door, Pike looks better than he did when Jim pulled him off the table with Spock’s help. He looks better than better. He’s not on the hospital bed, he’s in a wheelchair, and he’s not yelling the ears off the officer that’s come to see him, but he’s definitely telling him off. It’s a relief to hear his voice, to know that whatever spirit that was that got him into Starfleet is still holding strong.

Fact is, Pike’s not anywhere close to dead yet. It’s a pretty selfish thing to be relieved about, all things considered, but Jim's not the type to count blessings because nothing's really permanent.

“Dismissed.”

"Sir." The officer salutes, looking the very picture of an image from an introduction guide to drill.

Jim decides to speak up. “Sir.”

Pike doesn't seem to have heard him. His head's back down on some PADD in his hands. All of a sudden, Jim's back in that classroom, hovering awkwardly as his Advanced Calculus teacher is as determined to make him sweat it out as much as possible.

The officer—who is probably Pike’s aide, come to think of it—gives him a side-glance without even moving his head as he walks out. Probably wondering about whether the cadet with the Kobayashi Maru strike on his record is coming here to give his superior a hard time. The door slides shut behind him soon enough; then it’s just Jim standing in his cadet reds when Pike finally glances up.

“Finally decided to show up?” Pike says, studying him. “Responsibilities outweighed ego?”

“Figured you saw enough of my face in the downtime I was in cuffs, sir,” Jim replies, trying for something a bit subtle between being smartest kid in class and and favored class clown. From what Jim knows, Pike hasn’t been anywhere off Starfleet HQ since they’ve touched down. He’d been transferred on a biobed and sent directly to the hospital. Jim knows his way around even the security measures of a PADD enough, and it doesn't take a genius to know what's been going on with treatment. Enough surgeries'll be planned that Pike'll hopefully regain use of his lower legs again. Very likely not any time soon, though.

Jim didn’t visit; he’s awful with hospitals, never could handle a sight after he’d been ten and the sudden thought about what-ifs and over-thinking. Pike probably couldn’t give two shits about Jim’s fears or bedside manner. At the same time, he’d probably have liked Jim’s initiative.

In hindsight, maybe Jim should have visited sooner and not the day of a ceremony when told. Of course, things get a little complicated if you get arrested in front of nine million MediaComm cameras for the over sensationalized now-dropped charges of mutiny and having taken command of a Constitution-class starship. His mom had called, for one. Sam hadn't, but Jim's used to that.

 “You haven’t grown one iota,” Pike says, after a too long silence.

 “I wrote a report,” Jim says at last as an apology, wondering about the silence. "Two reports."

“I read those reports, amongst others,” Pike replies, not budging an inch. He seems more intimidating now; someone took the time to help him dress up for the ceremony, ironing creases into his uniform pants and wrinkles out of his uniform jacket. “Now I want to hear it from you.”

“About Delta Vega?” Jim’s surprised. He wouldn’t think Pike would’ve called him all the way here to hear him bitch. Then again, maybe the field notes he'd recorded on that ice planet really had synced directly into his final report when he hadn't been looking.

Pike’s expression doesn’t change. “About Nero.”

Right. “What about him?”

“As you’re probably aware of, Starfleet has no precedent for a time traveling maniac with future technology, but somehow we’ve got that eventuality covered in our working policy.” Pike steeples his fingers. “Why did you disobey and undermine acting Captain Spock's orders to regroup with the fleet?"

“I made a choice, Sir.” He’s not saying it should count for anything; Jim’s never done things expecting things. But he’s also never expected that the last man who would have his back to be grilling him for it. "I won't argue otherwise that it conflicted with what I was told."

Pike studies him. “Is that what you think?"

Jim hates that he knows what this is, and it isn't even a military technique. It's all old-school discipline: self-reflection, metacognition. Jim's interested in looking back at the idea of the human condition and how it relates to everyone, but now it reminds him too much of the things he's been trying to avoid. “That I’m aware of. Sir.”

“And that requires deliberately compromising your acting Captain? I know you aren't stupid, Kirk, or should I assume you consider yourself above military law and sensitivity training?"

Jim doesn’t flinch, though he can feel his jaw tighten. Pike has a way of putting things that would have made even the most callous of men shirk. “I did what I thought was our best option, and what you signed me up to do. And you did say so yourself: Come back for me.”

Pike sighs.

“Don’t act out at the assembly this afternoon."

Jim blinks. “Excuse me?” This is absolutely not where he thought this would be going.

“I’m telling this to you ahead of time so you’re not surprised, but I think it’s best if you know so you’re not going to contest Admiralty's decision.”

“I don’t contest Admiralty if there isn't a reason to contest,” Jim replies.

Pike ignores him. “I'll be frank. The assembly? Promotions, but it's also putting a clear finish to your academic hearing. Official stance is that you’re not getting promoted. It's been decided that you're repeating another academic year.”

“ _What_?”

“You beat the system in three years. Council opinion is that it’s no problem for you to finish one more, with an individualized program.”

As far as Jim is concerned, 'individualized program' is bullshit speak for whatever they want to make up for him to do. “I did my classes. Passed them with flying colours. I even TA. Are you telling me the Kobayashi Maru—”

“Starfleet isn’t too happy with how you handled Nero. That’s what’s costing you a post-field promotion and guaranteed starship placement like everyone else.”

“You mean graduation,” Jim counters sharply. “Unless they’re kicking me out of Advanced Tactics too?” It stings, he realizes. That all his hard work is for nothing. Being in Advanced Tactics is supposed to let you graduate a Lieutenant. And from there, it would've just been proving himself to get the extra stripes and stars.

“This isn’t about you.”

“The hell it isn’t." Jim doesn't even know how anyone can look at it and think that it isn't some kind of punishment. And he knows there's not enough officers, but it doesn't mean he's stupid even pissed to not know they need people in those ranks. “Look. I'll be the last one to get a promotion among my class? Fine. But you can’t tell me they didn’t specifically single me out. You can’t tell me they won’t bar me from making the cut when it’s time to assign ships officially. They’re _kicking_ me out of the running when I can be an asset."

“You’re not getting kicked out of anywhere,” Pike replies. “Starfleet’s just not sure they want you in the field or calling any shots right now, as high profile as you are." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm not supposed to be telling you this, but Starfleet is currently halting all exterior exploration missions. The only things we're doing now is regrouping and keeping the peace where we need it."

Jim feels lost, in a way he isn't sure he can understand. "So where do they want me?"

“They want you to have some experience in the lower ranks. Paperwork. Grunt work. Learn the trade.” It's got to be a joke, but Pike isn't laughing. “Earn the starship placement."

“With or without your recommendation for the Enterprise?”

“Kirk.”

“Ship assignment,” Jim says, and he's trying to see where Pike's coming from, really, but. “Ensign Chekov—great guy, nothing against him—was top of his class, and he’s got what I’m pretty sure is a guaranteed spot on the Enterprise once she's out of repairs. Now, I’m not too much of a genius-level Midwest offender, _Sir_ , but I can figure out there’s a lot more going on than just that.” And, because Jim remembers: “I told you I could do this in three years.”

“Out of all—” Pike scowls at him. “Kirk, think about it for one second. You think I want to let you rot somewhere you don’t need to be? I’m not here to stroke your ego. You _know_ you’re good, Starfleet knows you’re good. When I considered recruiting you when you were drooling on the bar floor, that was the case too. We’re all on the same page here.”

“You’re going to have to explain it to me, Sir.” Jim replies. “Seems we’re in different books entirely.” If Jim had been with anyone else, this show of attitude would have gotten his ass court-martialed here and back.

Pike looks at him. "I'm not your father, Kirk," he says.

 _That_ , got personal. Jim bites everything down, and then takes a breath. His fingers curl into fists.

Pike sighs. "I'm not here to criticize you without reason, Kirk. I don't regret recruiting you, considering, hell, you saved my life. But you need to accept the decision so you can work your way back up." It shouldn't really help that he's lowered the tension in his voice, but it does.

"I focused in tactics, Sir," Jim says, after a bit. After he's tried to compartmentalize. "What does the individualized program even mean I'm doing?"

"Everything to do with the starship," Pike says. "All the stations. You'll be there where they need extra hands. Engineering, Communications--"

"--they want me experienced on a starship?"

"They know you can command a starship in a pinch. They just need to know they can trust you to work with your crew."

Reasonable. It...doesn't sound as bad as it is. "Who'll do I report to, after the assembly?"

Pike sits back. Studies Jim again, in the long-gaze that Jim has grown accustomed to seeing on people who want Jim to be better than he is. Who are hoping, just maybe, he might impress them. "You may be familiar with...a Montgomery Scott?"


End file.
